


No Fate Worse Than Life

by aspiringenjolras



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Era, Character Death, Gen, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-28
Updated: 2015-05-28
Packaged: 2018-04-01 17:27:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 9,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4028500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aspiringenjolras/pseuds/aspiringenjolras
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Combeferre is a time traveler who returns to Paris 2 years after the barricades.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Les Mis 2015 Reverse Bang! Based on flaviamarquesart's piece [here](http://flaviamarquesart.tumblr.com/post/120127531118/one-of-my-entries-for-the-les-mis-reverse-bang).
> 
> The title, as well as epigraphs are taken from Brett Boles' musical "Foreverman".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The name of the song this epigraph is from is called "I Want to See the Bastille". You can listen to it [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LYRaP2_ufXI)!

_And Paris is grand_  
_But a dream cannot last_  
_I awake, and I'm still in despair_

**Paris, 1st of April 1834**

There wasn’t much the traveler could remember.

Actually, he didn’t remember anything. He woke up on the side of the road, leaning against a building. That was all.

He didn’t know it at the moment, but this was actually a common occurrence for him. It wasn’t the dirt or the cold hard ground that bothered him. 

It was the dead silence of the city.

The sun was just starting to cast its light down on the cobblestone roads, but the city wasn’t awake yet. Nothing stirred or made a noise. It might have been seen as calm and peaceful by someone else, but not the traveler.

He never liked silence. He just didn’t know that.

This was still Paris, he knew that much, although the buildings looked different. Older, much older than he- well, he didn’t remember them, but he knew. He didn’t know how he got there, but he knew this was Paris and that these buildings were old. Old compared to what, he had no idea. 

He looked down at the clothes he was wearing- dark blue trousers made of a tough material, and a close fitting top that was tight against his skin. 

He didn’t know why, but this clothing felt wrong. 

He was in Paris, with old buildings and new clothes but he couldn’t remember why or how or even his own name.

He would, in time, remember it all.

Getting to his feet, the traveler began to explore the empty Parisian streets currently at his disposal. He heard the bells chime, _one, two, three, four, five_. Five in the morning.

And he remembered.

The traveler remembered that he had left somewhere, somehow, at exactly five in the morning. And now he was here, at five in the morning as well. It didn’t make sense, but it was true. 

Suddenly, he turned round and ran back to the place he had woken up. He had been here before too. He had… fallen asleep? No, that wasn’t it. He must have passed out and woken up thinking more time had passed than was true. 

But how does an entire city change its buildings in under a minute? And how does a minute suddenly make clothes feel entirely wrong? The traveler didn’t have these answers. But it was a start.

The thought crossed his mind that perhaps he was dreaming, or on the other hand maybe he’d had too much to drink. He told himself that he should go somewhere and sleep it off, so he went out in search of an inn somewhere. 

There was a small one a few blocks away, stuck between two larger buildings, and the traveler knocked quietly. A tired looking woman came to the door, and offered him a warm if somewhat wary smile. “Monsieur?”

The traveler cleared this throat. “Have you any spare rooms? I am a… a traveler, you see, and I just arrived here.” The woman nodded and stepped back to let him cross the threshold into the inn. 

“May I have your name, Monsieur?” 

“My… my name?” the traveler’s mind raced as he tried to call to mind the name he had been given once, long ago.

“Or your papers, either one.” The traveler frantically reached for his bag, the case he had placed on the ground beside him. There had to be some sort of… ah! There it was. He found a small box, sealed with a combination lock. He pulled it out and held it in his hands, starting at the lock. 

“I’m sorry madame, but could you tell me what the year is?”

“The year? Why, it’s 1834, of course!” 

1834… The traveler spun the lock to those numbers and the lock clicked open. Inside were piles of identification documents. He shuffled through them until he pulled out a yellow stained piece of paper and shoved it at the woman.

Her eyes raked over it quickly, then looked him up and down in shock. “You’ve returned. I thought you were a story, that they had just made you up. But you’re real, you’re standing right in front of me. _Mon Dieu!_ Excuse me for a moment.” The woman turned and hurried off into the other room, but not before shoving the traveler’s identification papers back at him in excitement.

He looked down at the document in his hand, opening it up and reading it for the first time.

_Name: Clément Combeferre_

_Combeferre._

_Combeferre the traveler._

_Combeferre the_ time _traveler._

Oh yes. He remembered now.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The name of the song this epigraph is from is called "End of All Things". You can listen to it [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DhNvAzjtAZw)!

_I’ve have so many names throughout my history_  
_Sometimes I can’t remember who I used to be_  
_And in the years to come I know I’ll have so many more_  
_That one day I’ll forget completely who I was before_

 

**Paris, 2nd of April 1834**

Despite this new revelation, Combeferre fell asleep quickly. When he woke (almost a day later, he was told, to his surprise), he pulled his case up onto the bed and sorted through his belongings, trying to put together the pieces of what had happened. It was coming back to him, but something still bothered him.

 _“They had just made you up.”_ the woman had said. So he had been here before. But when?

_“I thought you were a story.”_

Under what circumstance would he have revealed any part of what he does to anyone? That went against everything he had ever been taught.

After all, there were rules to this business.

Rule number one: Don’t tell anyone who you are. Not what you do, not why you’re there. It just isn’t safe.

So why- why, why, why- had he broken that rule?   

The woman knocked gently on his door. “Monsieur Combeferre?” She poked her head in. “I have some new clothes for you.” She presented a stack of neatly folded clothes. “Those things you’re wearing now won’t get you very far here. You stick out like a sore thumb.”

“Thank you, madame,” he murmured, taking the clothes from her. He looked at the long jacket and ascot with a shake of his head. He was going to miss the comfortable clothes he was wearing now. When she left the room again, he carefully got dressed in the new clothes, casting his previous garments aside regretfully. When he was finished, he examined himself in the mirror of the tiny room.

Pale waistcoat, close fitting brown jacket. Long silky ascot tied just a bit too loose around his neck. He picked up his spectacles and placed them on the bridge of his nose. Gripping his cap in one hand, and ran a hand through his hair, pushing it out of his face. Then he placed it on his head, nodding confidently. This felt right.

Something was missing, though. Combeferre fished around in his case for his prized possession, the most important one: his watch. He clipped it to his waistcoat and opened it. Nine in the morning. Everything was falling into place except the most important: why had he been here before, and what had made him return?

He had to get out. He had to go and find some answers, track some people down who he could  talk to. But before he could do that, the door flew open and a person burst into the room. Combeferre was immediately on guard, but the person (a short, curly haired, slightly frazzled young man) simply stopped short and stared at him, a wide grin spreading across his face.

“Combeferre!”

He shook his head, trying desperately to put a name to the face he knew he recognized. He tried not to show that he didn’t remember the man, but of course that was difficult. The man’s face fell.

“You don’t remember me.” It wasn’t a question, but rather a mildly disappointed statement.

Combeferre shook his head. “I do, I- I know your face. But I don’t remember your name. Or…”

“Or anything that happened here, right? I know, she told me.” Completely unaffected by Combeferre’s bemused expression, the man stuck out his hand. “Courfeyrac.”

Courfeyrac, Courfeyrac… Yes, Combeferre remembered him now. Sort of anyway, but between what he could remember and his impression of him now, he could see why he would have put his trust in him, if he had indeed.

Combeferre smiled warmly. “I’m glad fate has led our paths to cross again, mon ami, if I may call you that.”

Courfeyrac nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, yes, absolutely. I know you weren’t here for very long, but I like to think that in the short time we had together we got to know each other well.”

“And how long was I here?” Combeferre asked. He sat down, gesturing for Courfeyrac to do the same, and pulled out a notebook.

“I think… maybe two months? And then you left suddenly, without explanation. You barely even said goodbye.”

“So you don’t know why I…? Damn.” Combeferre shook his head. “I’m sorry. You’ve been very helpful.”

Courfeyrac grinned again. “I might be able to be even more. Hold on.” He stood again and rushed out of the room. He came back holding a box sealed with a ribbon. “This is my sister Marie’s inn, but I live here in the summer with her. When you were here, she was traveling, and I was running it in her place. You stayed here with me, and I found this left here after you disappeared.” He opened the box and pulled out a leather-bound journal. “Is this yours? I don’t know how much you used it, but I figured you might’ve written something in here that would jog your memory. Either way, you probably were missing it.”

Combeferre strided over and grasped his hand tightly. “Thank you, Courfeyrac, thank you! I am in your debt, brother.” He picked up the journal, relishing in the feel of the cool leather in his hands. “This book is my record of everything I’ve done, all my travels. Everything will be here. It’s been horrible being without it all this time.”

He flipped through it until he came to the first page with Courfeyrac’s name on it. Along with that were other names- ten or so. Enjolras, Prouvaire, Bahorel, Joly, Bossuet, Feuilly, Grantaire, and others as well. And he had written about meeting them all. As he read, the faces of these men appeared in his mind as if he had never forgotten them. He must’ve been grinning, because Courfeyrac said “Remember them?” with a small smile of his own. “Come on,” he said as Combeferre started to turn to the next page. “Let’s go see them. You can read the rest later.” Courfeyrac grabbed his hand in excitement and Combeferre dropped the journal on the bed, immediately forgotten.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The name of the song this epigraph is from is called "Sons of Adam. You can listen to it [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Wa8BZyjqHaM)!

_You will not do this alone, [now] take your knife_  
_Make us brothers in blood, and time and life_  
_And together we’ll make such great plans_

**Paris, 2nd of April 1834**

It didn’t take long for them to walk into the center of Paris, to a little café with a sense of familiarity he didn’t understand. “How do you know they’ll all be here?” Combeferre asked.

“Just wait and see!” Courfeyrac said. “We’re late as it is. Enjolras will be mad if we walk in while talking loudly.” They made their way into the small tavern. “Welcome back to _Le Café Musain_ ,” Courfeyrac announced, very loudly indeed, as they walked past the threshold. Seven faces turned to stare at them.

The man at the front of the room walked over very slowly. He was tall and dark-skinned, and his expression was stony and unreadable. He stopped right in front of Combeferre, and for a moment he thought he wouldn’t remember him. But then the man’s face split into a huge grin and he grasped his hand. “Combeferre.”

“Enjolras.”

“It’s good to see my friend. I almost didn’t believe Courfeyrac when he told me you had turned up in the middle of the night at his sister’s inn. Tell me, what made you return to us? It’s been two years!”

Combeferre shook his head ruefully. “I wish I knew. But I have my journal back now, so I should have answers soon.”

Enjolras nodded. “Do… do you remember all the others?” Combeferre looked around the room at the familiar faces all watching either anxiously or with cautious smiles. Finally he turned to Courfeyrac, and was met with a huge grin. Looking back at Enjolras, he nodded.

“I do.”

“Then go and say hello.” Enjolras shook his head fondly. “I know they’re all anxious to see you. We won’t get anything more done tonight at this rate.” Combeferre nodded gratefully and turned back to the crowd. He was almost overwhelmed as he faced all these people who used to be his friends… or still were? He didn’t know.

As if he could sense his nervousness, Courfeyrac gripped his arm tightly and leaned up to whisper in his ear. “I’ll stay with you if you want.” Combeferre smiled and mouthed thank you back.

Then just like that, the moment passed and the silence broke, and everyone was rushing up to Combeferre, asking him how he was, how his travels had been, what he had been up to. Most of the questions he didn’t have answers to, but that was alright for them, it appeared. Whoever he had been to them, they seemed to “really adore me,” as he read in his journal later that evening.

After he had finished greeting his old friends and the meeting had come to an end, Courfeyrac and Enjolras took him out for a meal, where they filled Combeferre in on what he had missed. Courfeyrac explained how most of them had gone back to school, and though he exaggerated just a bit when calling them “citywide heroes”, the sentiment was still accurate. Enjolras talked about what was next for the group, because “the works is never truly done for a revolutionary”. Combeferre was still more confused than anything else however, and he spent most of the evening wishing he was back at the inn with his journal. However, he managed to keep up polite conversation until the other two decided it was time to retire.

Back in his room, he turned to the very last journal entry, noting the carefully written date at the top.

_“7 June 1832 - 01:42_  
_When I came here, I did not intend to befriend any of these men involved in the June Rebellion. This was supposed to be a historical study for me, nothing more. I wanted to know how it happened. Obviously, that is not what happened._

_I couldn’t let the barricade fall, not with all those people on it. Of course we still lost a few people, but casualties happen. It’s still different from losing an entire barricade of students. I couldn’t let the barricade fall, so I saved it. I saved all those people. They never died. This event is so tiny and insignificant that it shouldn’t do anything bad._

_Enjolras and Courfeyrac and Grantaire and Joly and Bossuet and Prouvaire and Feuilly and Bahorel and Gavroche- they’re all alive. That girl Eponine as well.  We did lose Marius at the end though, and that kind old man in the National Guard uniform who helped us. The police spy is dead, though. The old man killed him- we all heard the gunshot. And it shouldn’t be any other way._

_I must leave now while they are all still sleeping. They will have too many questions that I could not answer. They know all they need to know, and probably more than I should have revealed, but so be it. When they wake in a few hours, I will be long gone. They are in capable hands, and I know I will hear in the future of the great things these men have done._

_I don’t get attached to people I meet when traveling. I am unlikely to ever cross paths with them again, and even if we were to meet, they are mortal, and I am not. It doesn’t do anyone good to form attachments. However,  I believe I will miss Courfeyrac the  most. He has been invaluable to me, and above that a great friend. I would love to return some day to see them all again, but returning, barring a catastrophe, is against the rules._

_So now I must depart, with no final goodbyes. None are necessary. I am used to it by now._

_Doesn’t make it any easier.”_

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The name of the song this epigraph is from is "End of All Things". You can listen to it here [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DhNvAzjtAZw)!

_It seemed a blessing to exist outside of time_   
_Young and strong and fearless living always in my prime_   
_I shaped the future using greater men than I_   
_I watched them live and love and learn_   
_And then I watched them die_

 

**Paris, 2nd of April 1834**

Combeferre did not sleep well that night. He tossed and turned in bed, occasionally bolting upright and grabbing his journal to reread a passage, trying to make sense of his own actions, and his memories. But at long last, he thought he understood.

He had taken a chance in coming the first time, because it had been on a personal case rather than for a greater good. Still, he had known the risks and the rules. Coming and studying the history was not the difficult task. That was coming without befriending anyone, and watching those people die without saving them. He had failed on both accounts, and now, somehow, he was paying the price.

What was happening? This shouldn’t have happened, and yet…

Perhaps he had misjudged how important this event was. It hadn’t seemed very important, but then again, one small two-day battle in France was like the blink of an eye to an immortal time-traveler.

His fatal mistake. He had thought something hadn’t mattered, and now he was beginning to see just how much it mattered.

Clearly, saving that barricade had messed up the timelines, but he didn’t know how. These people here, his friends- they seemed fine. It was his life that seemed to be in shambles.

It just didn’t make sense.

But- it did, in a way. People aren’t supposed to live forever, but he could. He had lived for centuries. And in all of that, lines had been blurred and he had forgotten that the rules he had bent for himself still applied to everyone else. No one is supposed to live longer than they’re meant to. Men aren’t supposed to go back in time at all, let alone go back and save the lives of people who have been dead for years.

But now the deed was done. It wasn’t like he could undo it.

...Right?

Of course right. He wasn’t going to kill these people, couldn’t let them die again. And besides, changing the timeline twice was dangerous. Going back to 1832 at all was dangerous. So before he made any rash decisions, he was going to find out.  

Combeferre dug through his briefcase again, hoping to find some book of wisdom on this subject, but of course there wasn’t. Such a thing didn’t exist. How could it, when he was alone in this? He was going to have to be the one to find the answers on his own.

He crawled in bed, wishing for sleep to overtake him. He always had his best thoughts when he was sleeping. His dreams had always spoken to him. That was often how his answers came to him. Why should it be different now?

He closed his eyes and curled up, gratefully slipping into a hazy fog and letting sleep overtake him.

_He was running. Running across a cobblestone street, and under his feet it was changing, growing and crumbling. He was being chased, though by what he didn’t know. He stumbled and fell forward, but instead of hitting the ground he kept falling. When he landed with his feet on the ground, he was somewhere else, in another time and another place._

_He knew this place, he remembered it from the depths of his memories somewhere. A new world, somewhere in the future. But it wasn’t really the future, because what is the “future” to a time traveler? Just a different time. If there is one thing he’s learned, it’s that there is no such thing. The future to some is the past to others and the present to the rest._

_And he- he existed outside of time. Time for him was not a boundary, not a wall holding him back. It was a gateway, a portal, a road to travel along in any direction. And he had surpassed it, become stronger than it. It wasn’t enough to be able to manipulate and use time. He was the master of time. It belonged to him and he could do whatever he wanted. He was not free._

_No one is ever free._

_Everything has consequences. Being able to do whatever you want doesn’t mean you aren’t going to mess up sometimes._

_He could see everything crumbling, ripping apart like the ruins of the barricade that should’ve fallen. Timelines were destroyed. People were alive whose grandparents should never have been born. People who were supposed to bring great change to the world never had that opportunity because their ancestors died on a barricade in a battle they should have survived._

_And what did that mean for him? He had gone back to 1832 to study this piece of history, but he changed that history! In a world where that barricade never fell, he would not have even known about the battle._

_He had created a paradox, and that paradox had launched him out of that timeline, creating a universe in which the battle had been won. He was thrown into that universe, distilling all memories of ever having been there._

_He had existed in another time, 183 years later. But something had seemed wrong, though he couldn’t tell what it was. His journal was gone. He still traveled, learned, met and saved people. But something was always missing._

_And then as suddenly as those memories had been destroyed, the block in his mind came crashing down. By no control of his own, he was thrown back to 1834, two years after the June Rebellion where it all began. The only thing he was aware of as he was flung through time was the clocks were chiming five, ringing in his ears, growing louder and louder until he thought his head would explode. Something like that is not supposed to happen. No memories should be so strong that they can warp time, so of course some stuff had been lost along the way._

_He had managed to forget who he wa_ s.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This epigraph is from the title song, "No Fate Worse Than Life". Listen to it [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7-ON9pEjGW4)!

_The centuries go sweeping by_   
_And leave me in their wake_   
_And though I know I’ll never die because of one mistake_   
_Still I will wait_

 

**Paris, 3rd of April 1834**

When Combeferre awoke, it was to Courfeyrac’s sister Marie hovering over him anxiously, a cool wet rag pressed against his forehead. He blinked up at her in confusion. “...Madame?”

She exhaled, setting out a sigh of relief and with it a breath that she seemed to have been holding for a long time. “Thank God,” she murmured. “You were out for two days. We were beginning to think you wouldn’t wake up. Your fever was so high… but it’s broken now.”

Combeferre shook his head. “What happened? I just went to bed…”

“We were wondering the same thing,” said a voice from the doorway. Combeferre rolled over to see who it was, and saw Enjolras standing just inside, and Courfeyrac leaning against the doorframe. Despite the loud protesting of Marie, Combeferre insisted that he was fine, and sat up, only struggling a bit.

Once his head had stopped spinning, he said quietly, “May I speak to Courfeyrac and Enjolras alone, please?” Marie nodded and turned to go, only looking back over her shoulder anxiously before exiting. The others walked closer, nervously, as if Combeferre was a bomb about to explode.

“I’m _fine_ ,” Combeferre insisted. “Why are you two acting like I’m on my deathbed?” They exchanged a long look.

“Because we thought you were,” Enjolras finally answered cautiously. “Like Marie said, you were out for two days. You had a high fever. You didn’t even stir.”

Combeferre looked confused. “But-”

“But,” Courfeyrac interrupted, “We know you’re old. We thought maybe you couldn’t handle being so sick.”

Combeferre stared at him. “Courfeyrac, that’s the point. _I can’t die_. Do you even know how old I am?”

“A… couple of hundred years old?”

“Almost 600, Courfeyrac. I’ve faced plenty of disease and illness. But my body doesn’t age. I will never die.” Combeferre sighed. “So don’t worry about me.”

Courfeyrac and Enjolras exchanged another look. “So really. What happened?” Enjolras asked.

“I was dreaming,” Combeferre said. “I went to bed what I suppose was a few days ago, and I was dreaming, and then I woke up and you all were here.”

Courfeyrac sat on the edge of the bed, concern on his face. “Those must’ve been some intense dreams, to keep you out of the waking world for so long. What were they about, if I may ask?”

This is what Combeferre had feared. The response was not something they were going to want to hear. And he didn’t want to do it either. Telling them meant not only that they would have to hear an unpleasant truth, but that he would have to accept that fate.

“Perhaps… I could speak to Courfeyrac alone.” Courfeyrac immediately grew agitated.

“Anything you have to say to me, you can say it to Enjolras too.” Courfeyrac had stood up, and looked offended. Combeferre looked at Enjolras desperately, and the tall man shook his head with a smile.

“I’ll go, it’s no trouble. Feel better, Combeferre.” He flashed a bright smile and ducked out of the room.

As soon as Enjolras had left, Courfeyrac sank into a chair. “I’m sorry,” he said. Combeferre only shrugged in response and said nothing. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Courfeyrac,” Combeferre said suddenly, with great urgency. “I need you to listen to me, and listen to me carefully. Don’t say a word until I’ve finished. Promise me this.”

Courfeyrac nodded. “Of course,” he replied without hesitation, although Combeferre could see the concern written all over his face.

And so Combeferre took a deep breath, and told Courfeyrac everything. He started from the beginning, when he wanted nothing more to do research on a battle that had failed. Told Courfeyrac everything he hadn’t the first time they had met. He told him why he had needed to save them all, and why he had left without a word. He spoke for the first time what had come back to him in a dream, his life after he had formed the paradox. And he spoke the most difficult sentence he’d ever had to say:

“You should all be dead right now.”

Courfeyrac was silent for a long time after that. It was a calm silence, the kind one might mistake for tranquility. But they were far from tranquil. Combeferre could tell that Courfeyrac was anxious; he was shifting uncomfortably from side to side, and his eyes were trained on the ground, and even he himself was sitting nervously, waiting for Courfeyrac to say something, anything.

“So now what?” Courfeyrac finally broke the silence, speaking in such a low voice Combeferre almost missed the question. “What do we do now?”

This was the one question Combeferre had hoped he wouldn’t ask. Because he didn’t know. He knew really what should be done, but he refused to make that decision now. Because there had to be some way, some other way to fix what he had broken.

It seemed impossible. But he had to try.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, this epigraph is from ["No Fate Worse Than Life"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7-ON9pEjGW4)

_I need my brother and my friend_   
_I need him to forgive_   
_A life without an end a life impossible to live_   
_So I hope it’s not too late_

**Paris, 7th of April 1834**

A few days passed before Combeferre took any action. Life went on as usual. Courfeyrac promised not to tell Enjolras anything Combeferre had revealed to him. That was, as Combeferre had declared with more bravado than he felt, his responsibility and his alone, as well as something he should tell everyone at once. They all deserved to know.

_They all deserve to know what?_ Combeferre asked himself. _That their lives are a lie and they should be dead?_

So finally, Combeferre walked in late to a meeting, and they all looked up at him in surprise as he spoke softly from the doorway. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I have something to say.” There was some grumbling, but for once not from Enjolras, who sat down very abruptly and gestured to the front of the room. Everyone else was completely silent, even Grantaire spared them from a snide side comment.

Only Courfeyrac remained standing, watching from the corner, trying to smile bravely for Combeferre’s sake. Several times Combeferre considered turning and walking out of the room, leaving without telling them a word. With any luck this mess would only affect him, and he was willing to suffer through whatever torment this caused him if it meant they could live. But he knew that wasn’t an option, and he felt the shame of his failure weighing down in his chest as he gathered his thoughts.

Combeferre then told all his friends everything he had once said to Courfeyrac. Their reactions were vastly different, however. Feuilly paled and stared at the floor almost the whole time. Grantaire downed one, two, three drinks, before giving up and finishing the wine straight from the bottle. Enjolras stared straight ahead, stony faced, as if the information had either not set in yet, or he was trying to shut it out.

And the question was coming, the inevitable question, the one Combeferre was still afraid to answer. Not because he didn’t have one anymore. No, it was because of the answer he was going to have to give. He knew they would ask the question, he was prepared, but when Prouvaire stood up and asked, “How do we fix this?”- he still felt as if he he’d had the wind knocked out of him.

When he finally worked up the courage to answer, to speak without his voice breaking, he spoke in barely a whisper. “I have to go back and set things right. I’m sorry. If there was another way, I would…” He didn’t have the words to complete the sentence.

“Do it.” Courfeyrac stepped forward. “I’m speaking on behalf of all of us here, Combeferre, because I know they all agree with me. You have to do it.”

Combeferre looked around, expecting shouts of protest from the others, but to his surprise they were silent, and nodding gravely.

“This is the only way, you said it yourself,” Courfeyrac went on. “You have to put things back to how they should be.”

“This is… really what you all want?” Combeferre asked, mixed skepticism and fear in his voice. “You won’t really die, you know that right? Dying is easy. You can be at rest. But that’s not what will happen. The versions of yourselves that exist in 1832 will die, but you, standing here in front of me… You’ll just disappear. As if you were never here. This whole universe will cease to exist. Are you sure that’s really what you want to happen?”

“Do we have another choice?” Prouvaire asked, but it wasn’t really a question. He was just pointing out the obvious answer.

“We don’t need a choice,” Grantaire said, standing abruptly. “This is just the right thing to do.” Enjolras shot him a surprised look but looked away, not commenting. Courfeyrac stood beside Combeferre and pressed his hand.

“I think you have your answer,” he murmured. Combeferre squeezed hand back a little too tightly and looked down.

“So what’s next?” Enjolras asked.

“I’ll go back,” Combeferre said. “Back to June 1832, and I’ll make sure you lose that battle.” His voice made him sound braver than he was. Now that it was really happening, he was afraid. He didn’t want to lose these people.  “My friends, I just want to say…”

He couldn’t say it. But he didn’t have to. They were all smiling at him, and he knew he didn’t have to say anything more.

The first thing that happened after the meeting was Courfeyrac asking how soon Combeferre was going to go. Combeferre said that he would be leaving the next morning once he’d had time to time up his own loose ends here.

This was, of course, a lie. The moment he returned to his room, he gathered his things into his briefcase, holding just his watch in his hand. He had to go, now, before anyone could find him or stop him. Or worse, before he tried to stop himself.

But in his rush to go, he had forgotten to lock the door. He spun the hands on the watch, able to disappear with the press of the watch’s button, when he heard a voice from behind him.

“I thought you would try to go early,” said Courfeyrac. It wasn’t an accusation. He just sounded sad.

“I need to. Courfeyrac, please leave. I have to go.” Combeferre’s hand tightened on the watch chain.

“Then I’m coming with you,” Courfeyrac said.

“What? No, that’s absurd, you can’t do that, Courfeyrac-” Combeferre started to protest but Courfeyrac grabbed the hand holding the watch. With his grip tight on Combeferre still, he pressed down the button, and they were gone.

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [From the title song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7-ON9pEjGW4).

_For you the pain will end one day_   
_For me it just goes on_   
_You think it will be easy to forget you when you’re gone_   
_But it’s too late_   
_And there is no fate worse than life!_

**Paris, 4th of June 1832**

When he head had stopped spinning, Combeferre found himself standing in the middle of a cobblestone road. He turned around, not seeing his companion anywhere. “Courfeyrac…?”

“Whoa.” Combeferre looked down and say the other man sitting on the ground with his legs outstretched and palms pressed against the ground, looking around in wonder. “Are we really back in 1832?”

“We are,” replied Combeferre, distracted. “June 4th, to be exact.” He started walking down the road, glancing from side to side cautiously. Courfeyrac was still sitting, dumbfounded. Suddenly he seemed to snap out of his trance, and he scrambled to his feet, chasing after Combeferre.

“But that means the battle starts tomorrow, right?” He had to shout for his voice to reach Combeferre. “Why are we here now?”

Combeferre could feel annoyance building up inside him, but he shoved it down. There was no use feeling frustrated with his friend when in less than 48 hours… No. He wasn’t going to think about it.

“We’re here because I need time to make a plan.” Courfeyrac finally caught up to him, jogging and slightly out of breath, and looked at him quizzically.

“ _You_ need to make a plan? Don’t you mean _we_?”

Combeferre shook his head. “No, I mean I do. You’re going to stick with me and stay out of the way and safe.”

Courfeyrac crossed in front of him and stopped. “No. We’re in this together.” When Combeferre tried to protest, he silenced him with a glare. “I’m going to be dead in two days. Oh, sorry, _disappeared_. All I’m asking is that you let me help you. I won’t let you be solely responsible for my fate. If I’m going, it’ll be of my own accord.”

They stared at each other, Combeferre defiant and Courfeyrac determined. Finally, Combeferre sighed and looked away.  “Alright, you win.” Courfeyrac smiled and held out his hand, which Combeferre pressed briefly. “But you have to do exactly what I say.” Courfeyrac nodded enthusiastically. “Right then, let’s get moving.”

They walked along the road together. “There are some rules I need to tell you about,” Combeferre said. “First and foremost, we’re going to be in close proximity to past-you. You cannot, I repeat _cannot_ let him see you. Not only would you cause him to probably have a mental breakdown, but it will create another paradox on top of the mess we already have. That’s why I didn’t want you coming with me in the first place. Too dangerous. But now you’re here and we have to take extra precautions.”

Courfeyrac bowed his head, the realization that this was far larger than his selfish wish to control his end. “I’m sorry…”

Combeferre shook his head. “No. I wouldn’t have it any other way. I’m glad you’re here, Courfeyrac, I really am. It’s just…” He trailed off, unable to finish.

“Just what?” Courfeyrac asked, concerned.

“I’m going to have to watch you die. Right in front of me. And I’m scared, Courfeyrac.”

He smiled, despite everything, and even laughed a little. “Why are you scared? You’re not the one who’s going to disappear from existence.”

Combeferre only shook his head, and silence overtook them as they walked side by side. Every once in a while, Courfeyrac looked like he was about to ask a question ( _Where are we going? What’s the plan? How much time do I have left?_ ) but every time he opened his mouth, he caught sight of Combeferre’s stony expression and shut it again. In all honesty, Combeferre wouldn’t have minded the questions. The silence was deafening, and he would’ve preferred mindless conversation to the unasked questions hanging in the air. But he was afraid of not having answers, so he appeased himself with listening to the faint sounds of the Paris streets.

Eventually, after what seemed like hours, they came to a little inn. “We can rest here tonight and make a plan,” Combeferre said. “We’ll need to be up bright and early in the morning.” They settled in the room the innkeeper gave them, and Combeferre pulled out his journal. “I think what we need to do is be at Lamarque’s funeral in the morning. Then we can follow the others to the barricade.”

Courfeyrac nodded thoughtfully. “But how do we stop them from winning?”

Combeferre looked around nervously. “Well, I was the catalyst. I gave you strategies that I had observed from my study of battles and revolutions. Things you wouldn’t have known without me.” Courfeyrac started to object, and Combeferre shook his head. “I’m not insulting you. It’s just true. Otherwise you wouldn’t have lost initially.”

Courfeyrac stood up and started pacing. “Fine, but how do we stop it?”

“Well, just like you’ll be there on the barricade, as well as here, so will I.” Combeferre smiled. “I have to stop my past self from joining you.”

Courfeyrac stopped his pacing and turned to stare at him. “You said we can’t confront our other self!”

“I said _you_ can’t. Even past me won’t be shocked by it, but past you would be. I’ve seen everything. This won’t be the first time in 600 years that I’ve encountered myself in a paradox. It’s as safe as anything else. So I’ll follow everyone to the Rue de Villette and get myself out of the way. Then we wait for it all to play out.”

Courfeyrac stared absently at the wall. “And you’re sure this will work?”

_It has to._ “It will,” Combeferre replied. “There’s no reason for it not to.”

His companion looked unconvinced, and as much as Combeferre would have liked to simply curl up in bed and sleep, he felt like for some reason he owed Courfeyrac this explanation. “Think of it this way. You have a pail of water, filled to a certain level. If you drop a stone into it, the water rises. Nothing else has changed.  Now if you take out the stone, but only the stone, what happens?”

“The water level goes back down,” Courfeyrac replied automatically. “Back to where it was.”

“Right. So the stone was the catalyst. Remove it and it’s like it was never there. It’s exactly the same with this, except I’m the stone, and the battle is the pail of water.” Combeferre smiled, pleased at his metaphor, and Courfeyrac laughed.

“You never fail to make me smile, Ferre.”

“Ferre?” He raised an eyebrow. “ _Un surnom_?”

Courfeyrac tipped his head to the side. “Why not?”

He only smiled. “You never fail to surprise me, _Courf_. I’m going to miss you when...”

“Don’t. Don’t say it.” Courfeyrac’s eyes were wide and pleading.

“But it’s tr-”

“Please. Just… don’t.”

“Okay.”

Courfeyrac blew out the candle on the table between the beds.

“Goodnight, Ferre.”

“Goodnight Courf.”

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ["The End of All Things"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DhNvAzjtAZw)

_Why when everything I build will shatter?_   
_Why when nothing that I do will matter?_   
_Is this how you feel when you look down on what you made?_   
_Tell me there’s a meaning to this senseless masquerade_

**Paris, 5th of June 1832**

Combeferre was up with the dawn, and Courfeyrac soon after him. He packed his things up once again, trying to shove down the impending feeling of doom that made him want to be sick. He took extra care in his appearance, as he always did when something big was happening. It made him feel better ,usually, but today it wasn’t helping.

They waited until they could hear people gathering in the streets to leave the inn. A crowd had already formed, and they slipped in behind them, staying hidden and out of sight from anyone who might recognize them.

They could hear the procession coming down the streets, and the drumbeats echoed in Combeferre’s ears. He could see Courfeyrac tense beside him, but he was strangely calm.

Just as he remembered it, the students, the revolutionaries, broke away from the crowd and started running, shouting and waving flags as they raced down the streets. The National Guard appeared as if out of nowhere, and Combeferre and Courfeyrac simply followed along behind.

They took shelter in the top floor of a tavern where they could watch the action below. For Combeferre, watching it all play out again was nothing. It was nothing he wasn’t used to. He could see, however, that Courfeyrac was growing more anxious by the minute. The other man’s eyes were darting between Combeferre, the window, and the floor. He opened as mouth as if to say something a few times, but never did. Combeferre wished desperately that he could comfort him, but he too did not know what he would say.

Finally the long silence between them was broken when Combeferre looked down out of the window and saw himself approaching the barricade. “I’ve got to go stop him. Stay here.” Before there could be any protest, Combeferre hurried down the stairs and out into the street.

Walking up briskly behind his other self, he placed a hand on his shoulder. The other Combeferre froze and turned around slowly. Confusion passed over his face for a moment before nodding. “Hello, self. Do I dare ask what you’re doing here?”

Combeferre looked around quickly. “You need to leave. Now. I’m from a later time, I’ve been through this already. You cannot stay and fight on the barricade.”

Other-Combeferre looked shocked. “I’m doing it so they don’t all die! You know that!”

“No.” Combeferre shook his head. “We mess up everything if we do this. So I need you to turn and walk away. Leave this year and never return. Too much history is rooted in this one event. More than we will ever understand.”

Other-Combeferre studied him. “You’re serious.”

“Would I have come all this way and risked creating this paradox if I wasn’t? Would you?”

He shook his no. “No, I wouldn’t.” He gave a desperate look towards the barricade. “Can I ask… does anyone live?”

“Marius. And a volunteer, and old man dressed in a National Guard uniform. They will survive.”

His eyes dropped. “And Enjolras? Courfeyrac?”

“They die, with the others.”

Other Combeferre swallowed, then nodded. “Can I-”

“No,” Combeferre said. “You must go now.” His own heart was racing.

Other Combeferre gave the barricade one last look. His lips pressed into a thin line and he cast his eyes to the floor before he turned back to the other. He gave him a small nod, and turned his back to the barricade. Combeferre watched him walk away, his figure getting smaller and smaller until he had disappeared down the road.

Combeferre sighed and turned away quickly, running back to the tavern before he could be seen and mistaken for the version of himself that the others would be looking for. There was nothing he could do now. The deed was done, the catalyst removed, and all he could do was sit back and watch it play out.

And he was afraid.

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ["The End of All Things"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DhNvAzjtAZw)

_When I was young I saw the city from a tree_   
_I’ve seen the mountains in the sky from out at sea_   
_I wonder how it feels to sit upon a star_   
_Everything seems smaller when you view it from afar_

**Paris, 5th of June 1832**

The rest of that day passed far too quickly for Combeferre’s liking. Courfeyrac tried to make light conversation, but Combeferre could tell me didn’t have it in him. He could hear the fear behind the brave voice. And he felt selfish for being the one who was scared, though Courfeyrac told him over and over again that it was okay.

Night fell, and Courfeyrac fell asleep quickly. Combeferre stayed awake, perched in the tavern window, looking down at the barricade below. Things were starting to slow down, and he could see them settling down for the night. Long past nightfall, when everyone else was asleep, Combeferre could see Enjolras sitting on the barricade, watching the street warily. His heart ached for his friend who he knew would be dead by morning, and whose ideals and hopes would be shattered.

Combeferre didn’t remember when he fell asleep, or even that he was tired. But he woke up to the sun in his eyes and the sound of voices below. The end was nearing. Courfeyrac was sleeping peacefully and Combeferre didn’t really have the heart to wake him. It might even be easier if he slept through it. But he knew Courfeyrac wouldn’t want that, so he shook him gently.

“Hmm?” He rolled over and didn’t open his eyes.

“Courfeyrac, you need to wake up,” Combeferre said. Courfeyrac’s eyes opened and he shot upright.

“What time is it?” he asked anxiously.

“Early,” Combeferre replied, not bothering to check his watch. “There’s a bit of time left, but not much.” Courfeyrac nodded mutely, as if nothing was really registering. “Do you want to stay up here?”

Courfeyrac curled his knees into his chest and nodded. “Will you tell me what’s going on down there?” he asked. “I don’t want to watch. I can’t.”

Combeferre nodded and gripped his shoulder for a minute before returning to his perch in the window. He kept silent as people started stirring below, and Enjolras climbed up the barricade to address the crowd.

Combeferre couldn’t hear everything that went on, but he could see the National Guard approaching silently, before anyone on the barricade was aware of it. When their trumpets began to play, Combeferre could almost see the tension on the barricade heighten.

It was at this point that he began to narrate to Courfeyrac what was going on below. The gunfire, the screams, and the fear. His eye was drawn to a figure climbing the barricade, and after a few moments he recognized it to be the little boy, Gavroche. He held his breath as he jumped down on the other side and began collecting ammunition. Combeferre saw the National Guardsman point a gun at him, and he longed to cry out and alert the boy. But he had done enough damage already, and the words caught in his throat. If he strained, he could hear him singing softly, an indistinguishable tune. The first gunshot made everyone below cry out, and still the singing continued. The second gunshot shook the shutters on the windows, and was followed by silence.

It was as if a spell cast over the barricade had been violently broken. With angry shouts from both sides, the fighting began. Bullets flew in both directions, and Combeferre could barely bring himself to watch. Bodies were falling on both sides of the barricade, but it was painfully obvious which side was losing. The revolutionaries had far fewer men to start with, and they were dropping fast.

“Combeferre?” He turned to see Courfeyrac, still sitting on the floor, staring at his hands. “I can’t feel my fingers.”

Combeferre turned to look out the window at the scene below. It was hard to see exactly what was going on, because they all looked so small from up above. However, he thought he could make out a man with curly hair leaned against the barricade, looking very scared, and very weak. Had he been able to look closer, a rapidly growing red stain would’ve been visible. Instead, he turned back to Courfeyrac, who was very pale.

“Combeferre…”

“Shh.” Combeferre was by his side in an instant. “Try to lie back. I’ve got you.” Courfeyrac didn’t move.

“Courfeyrac? Can you lie back?” He wondered if the other man had heard him.

“Ferre, I… I am. I did. I did!” Courfeyrac’s voice was feeble and his words slurred. Every sound he made took more energy and effort than he could give. His eyes closed halfway,

Combeferre’s heart raced. “Here- take my hand.” Nothing. “Courfeyrac?” No movement.

“AmIdoin’thisright?”

He was fading fast, losing his connection with the real world, as his past self bled out on the cobblestones below. Combeferre wanted to scream and yell at him, tell him to pull himself together, gather a bit more strength, just stay awake until he could somehow fix it, fix the impossible. But that wasn’t how he wanted Courfeyrac to go out. So he reached over and grasped his hand, entwining their fingers. And though he knew Courfeyrac couldn’t feel it, he gave it a tight reassuring squeeze, more for himself than anyone else.

“Perfectly,” Combeferre choked out.

Courfeyrac smiled, and opened his mouth ever so slightly like he was trying to form words, but no sound came out. His breathing slowed, and Combeferre pulled him close, holding him tightly. The body in his arms was dissolving bit by bit, too fast, and at the same time agonizingly slow. The weight slowly disappeared until he was no more than a distant memory, a had been, a story.

Combeferre curled in on himself, hugging his knees. He would’ve been happy to stay there forever, but he was jerked out of his thoughts by the sound of footsteps on the stairs. There was no time for him to think, no time to do anything except scramble to his feet and pull out his watch. The footsteps on the stairs stopped and Combeferre looked up just in time to lock eyes with the tall, imposing figure of Enjolras before he was gone, leaving everything behind him.

~ ~ ~

_“7 June 1832 - 01:42_   
_When I came here, it was not to befriend any of the men involved in the June Rebellion. This was a historical study for me, nothing more. I wanted to know how it happened. I believe I have achieved this goal._

_It was hard watching the barricade fall, what with all those people on it. Of course a few did survive. Their fates still remain unknown to them, but I know they will live on. In many ways I wish I had saved them, but I could not. This event is so significant that it would be dangerous to change it._

_Enjolras and Courfeyrac and Grantaire and Joly and Bossuet and Prouvaire and Feuilly and Bahorel and Gavroche- they’re all dead. That girl Eponine as well.  Marius Pontmercy was carried away into the sewers by the volunteer in the National Guard uniform. The police spy is dead, though. The old man let him go, but I saw him walk off the parapet off the Pont au Change into the Seine._

_I’m in no rush, but there is nothing left for me to do here. No one will question my being here. No one will even remember. The only people I revealed anything to are dead. I know I will hear in the future of the great things that have come because of these men._

_I try not to get attached to people I meet when traveling. It is better this way, and since they are dead, I will never cross paths with them again. They have the privilege of dying, something I never will. It doesn’t do anyone good to form attachments. However,  I believe I will miss Courfeyrac the most. He was invaluable to me, and above that a great friend. I would love to return some day to pay my respects, but returning, barring a catastrophe, is against the rules._

_So now I must depart, with no final goodbyes. None are possible. I am used to it by now._

_Doesn’t make it any easier.”_

 


	10. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final epigraph is from the song "Home". You can listen to it [here.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NNE4vmdV8wY)

_Home..._   
_We’ll go home and then_   
_We’ll find an explanation_   
_For how it all went wrong_

**Montreuil, 28th of May 1870**

Marius Pontmercy sat hunched over at his desk, reading a letter. It had arrived earlier that day, without the address from which it had come. The only reference to the sender was a large capital C drawn neatly on the back of the envelope.

_“M. Pontmercy,_

_You do not know who I am, nor should you. We met once, very briefly, but you will not remember me. That is of little importance. Quite some time has passed, but you no doubt remember the barricades of 1832. In fact, they are no doubt burned in your mind like a brand. I know they are in mine._

_I am so, so sorry about the deaths of your friends. I know that even now, it must hurt._

_I just want you to know that what they did, what you all did, was not in vain. In fact, fairly soon you should receive some very good news. A new day is coming for France, and this time it will last. I promise._

_Perhaps more importantly, you are all remembered. Not by name, but by your actions. And you will continue to be so, long past your death. No one will ever forget what you did in June of 1832._

_Please take these words to heart, and believe me when I say that their sacrifice meant everything. I swear to you that they will live in the memories of the people for years to come. I will ensure it. In fact, you will find that there have been an abundance of books and articles written about the June Rebellion of 1832, and there will be many more in the future._

_Your friends would be very proud of you, Monsieur._

_You will not hear from me again, nor can I provide you with any way to contact me. There is no need for that. You will be quite alright on your own. I wish you the best in life._

_C”_

When Marius finished the letter, he read it over again. And again, and again, and again. His wife Cosette found him, hours later, holding it with tears streaming down his cheeks. She did not ask any questions of him, simply taking the letter and reading it for herself. When she finished, she reread it as well, and embraced him tightly, neither saying a word.

They didn’t have to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for reading (if you got this far)! I put my entire heart and soul into this piece and I really hope you liked it. When I was previewing the art pieces for the reverse bang, Flavia's stuck out to me. I jumped on it as soon as claiming began, and I was so thrilled when I got it. I love that piece, and I love this piece... It's been a fun journey.
> 
> On the next chapter there's a little surprise, so go forward one more...
> 
> And if you liked this, maybe leave a comment? Thank you so much!


	11. The cover!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made a cover out of Flavia's art, which is linked in the first chapter. Cool, huh?

 


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